


Of Wherever You Are

by RitTheLiar



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (no beta we die like stregobor should have), Developing Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26651683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RitTheLiar/pseuds/RitTheLiar
Summary: “Wait, do you mean… You’re not actually from Rivia?”Geralt brings up the fact he’s not actually from Rivia. Jaskier starts thinking of places where the witcher could come from.A silly collection of snippets, really.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 143





	Of Wherever You Are

**Author's Note:**

> A thing I decided to write after a random idea popped up in my mind. Snippets style is pretty cool to write in, especially cause I suck at descriptions.  
> This was a fun exercise and an opportunity to explore the Witcher's universe. I've only experienced the Netflix show so far, but I have a smidgeon of knowledge from other sources too.
> 
> I apologise for any errors, feel free to point them out, so they may be corrected!
> 
> Enjoy!

The witcher was already ahead, but the bard kept bouncing on his feet, looking curiously at the landmark.

“Hey, Geralt,” he drawled from the distance, “correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we going into Rivia?”

The other just hummed.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed the bard and jogged up to the witcher, who waited for him on the side of the path just a bit further. “Home sweet home, eh?”

His friend (yes, we are friends Geralt, jeez, just accept it) grunted, but it was an unusual grunt. He knew, he catalogued them. The grunts Jaskier was the most familiar with expressed: annoyance, exasperation, frustration, and sometimes fondness. This one, oh, this one was a rarity when they were away from villages, palaces or other places that present a high probability of Geralt’s necessary interaction with human beings. It was discomfort.

“Got any recommendations where we should go? Taverns with the bestest ale and the prettiest bar maidens? Inns with moderately soft beds? Bakeries with the sweetest rolls? Forests scattered with remnants of ancient civilisations? Particularly enjoyable vistas? I can think of some nobles from here, although before certain faces I’d rather not appear lest we cut short our visit to this region.”

Geralt mumbled something and were it not for his attentiveness and hunger for reciprocation in conversation, he would’ve missed it.

“What was that? Heard you almost loud and clear, but my weak human ears need a repetition.”

“I’m not from here.”

Jaskier blinked.

“Wait, do you mean… You’re not actually from Rivia?”

The witcher nodded.

“But…! The accent…!”

“Learnt it.”

Jaskier opened his mouth in astonishment.

“All these years and you’ve never told me? Right, now that I think about it, I’ve never been in Rivia _with_ you, but… How do you not mention such an important aspect of your identity?”

“Never thought it important.”

Jaskier puffed out and started looking like a very offended chicken, with his big eyes and mouth agape, as well as the way his body convulsed slightly. He put hands on his hips and continued his tirade.

“You! Do you realise what I’ve unknowingly committed? If this gets out, my songs will lose credibility!”

“You lie all the time in them, though.”

“This is called artistic freedom, Geralt!” He waved his arms for emphasis. “I work with the material and transform it to suit the needs of the song.”

The witcher huffed and pulled on Roach’s reins, continuing forward. Jaskier spluttered and hissed some creative insults, then, as always, followed.

***

“… _For this is our hero; Geralt of_ … of… Temeria? No, sounds shite. Geralt of…”

“What are you doing, bard?” The witcher asked, looking through his shoulder.

“Little thought experiment.” Some humming, some strumming. “You’re not sure where you are from, so I came up with this: let’s test out what works the best with your name!”

The witcher grimaced and Jaskier deduced that was supposed to show his mix of confusion, annoyance and amusement at the idea. Roach huffed, probably sharing her rider’s feelings. He wouldn’t be discouraged by such an audience, he’d had worse.

“ _The best slain, devoured by flame; Remember his name, Geralt of…_ Kaedwen? Sodden? Verden?”

“Why does everything end with –en?”

“Suits the rhyming scheme.” Geralt snorts.

“So that’s a condition now?”

Jaskier tapped his chin, seemingly considering, before he shrugged and launched into another melody.

“ _The night terrors will disappear; Your saviour is here; Geralt of Narok and his enormous_ –

“Jaskier!”

***

“With your delightful demeanour–” a sip of his drink– “I think Kovir suits you well.” He adjusted his head in his hand and looked at the other with a smirk. “You know, the general coldness and so on.”

He giggled at his own joke. Geralt swatted him.

***

The bard was sitting under a tree, enjoying some shadow in an overall sunny weather. His eyes sometimes wandered towards the meadow, full of flowers in colours only best poets, like him, would aim to describe. He kept strumming, plucking chords and testing melodies.

“Are you more of a Northern or Southern guy?”

“Not now, Jaskier!” The griffin shrieked and swung its long claws towards his shoulder.

“Eh,” he drawled, “in my humble opinion, North. It’s just… the general manner in which you present yourself. Of course, I mean North-North, because look at me. I exude totally different energy compared to your fine self, my friend. I admit, I do have some Northern sternness in me. But you? You’re all sternness. Gruffness. Cantankerousness. Rudeness. Other things ending with ‘ness’.”

“I get it, now shut up!” Blood splattered on the flowers, dying the meadow with an additional red, as the witcher pierced the beast’s torso.

“See? Proving my point.”

***  
“I’m not suggesting Nilfgaard as a matter of principle.”

“Hm.”

***

“Maybe you should be more local.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Friendly neighbourhood witcher.”

Roach was enjoying a brushing session offered by her witcher. The other man was sitting near the river’s bank, soaking his toes, his notebook balanced on one knee and the tip of his quill leaving black spots near his ear.

“I think I should stick to towns. Yes, I know, brilliant idea.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Nothing new,” he muttered and yelped when he got hit by a pebble.

***

“We could go with an alliteration,” he mused, as his fingers played with the strings. “Geralt of Gors Velen. Geralt of Gelibol. Geralt of Gulet…”

“Gulet’s taken.”

“What?” Jaskier twanged loudly, as he nearly tripped. “Do you call dibs on places among the witchers?”

“Not really, just…”

“An unspoken rule, huh?”

“Hm,” which was a confirmation.

***

“Where are your brothers from?”

“Hm?” Geralt glanced up from whetting his stone.

“Your brothers. Fellow Wolf witchers. Those you carefully avoid to mention unless considerably drunk and feeling lonely–“

“Enough,” he growled. And then seemed to get lost in thought. Patience, Jaskier. It’s not like you can name every cousin and nephew and niece that shares a drop of your blood. He can name his siblings and their spouses, though (and that’s more than two or three people), so this isn’t turning much in Geralt’s favour.

“I don’t remember.”

“What?!” The bard squawked. “First you forget to mention you’re not actually Rivian, now this?” He gasped. “Is this…” Jaskier placed his hand on the witcher’s shoulder and looked at him with pity. “Is losing memories a sign of you getting old?”

“Fuck off.” He shrugged the hand off, but Jaskier was sure he was fighting a smile.

“Seriously, how are you not able to recall the names of people closest to you?”

“We don’t really use full names among each other.”

Sigh.

“Shit excuse, but I’ll take it.”

A moment.

“Wait, do you remember where I am from–?!”

***

“What’s Ciri’s full name.”

“Jaskier, drop it.”

“Ha! I knew it! You don’t know it!”

***

Jaskier looked at the pair on the side of the ballroom. The dark-haired woman fluttered her lashes and her painted lips stretched into a smirk, probably delivering some exciting commentary about the lord’s guests. The tall man also smiled, how unlike him, then leant down to whisper into her ear.

Maybe, if he wanted some sense of belonging… Maybe… if he wanted to share another thing with that witch of his…

Perhaps… Geralt of Vengerberg?

…

Nah, doesn’t sound well. Too long, not good enough poetic potential, that place is shit, anyway.

He won’t bring it up.

***

The fire crackled.

“Geralt…”

No answer. But he was listening. He usually did, despite everything.

“Geralt, actually…” He bit his lip. “I’m not on the best terms with my father, but… If you want a place to belong to, I could always arrange something in Lettenhove? Then you would be…” Inhale. “Of Lettenhove. Or… or better!” He exclaimed with a clap of hands. “Ciri will surely be able to give you a title in Cintra? Geralt of Cintra! Sounds nice, right?”

Geralt rose, then slid down next to him, so that they were very much touching on a very big area. Which meant that Jaskier’s heart decided to do a very complicated dance right now.

“Jaskier.”

“Yeah?” He hiccupped.

“I don’t care about the place in my name. It was Vesemir’s idea, anyway.”

“Oh.”

“What is important is where I am now and the people to whom I can go back to.”

Jaskier sniffed.

“Somebody’s stealing good verse material from me”

“Shut up.”

Both chuckled.

“But thank you,” he looked at the fire, then back at him, “for caring.”

“Oh, you silly, silly man,”

They looked at each other and Jaskier, bless or curse his romantic heart, could swear he saw warmth in his friend’s eyes. And something more, or at least he hoped so. Instinctively, he licked his lips, and the witcher closed the distance and connected their lips.

It was terribly slow, sensual, full of emotion, and pretty high on his top list of kisses he ever shared.

“Anyway,” the witcher hummed with a mischievous smirk, “Rivia is easy to rhyme with.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Jaskier giggled and kissed his witcher some more.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you had fun reading this!
> 
> It's not very shippy, I'm better at slow (painful) burn. But they kissed before one of them was mortally wounded, so that's a fast development in my book.
> 
> Do you have your own suggestions for Geralt's name? Or for Eskel or Lambert? Why aren't they given a place! I'm sure they do have those sorta surnames, so I came up with this stupid idea that Geralt is just dumb and forgot. Lol.
> 
> Again, thank you.  
> If you leave kudos, bless you and your kind heart. If you leave a comment, may lots of hugs and fluffy cats come your way. Cheers!


End file.
